by A J McDine
‘Were you together in Corfu?’ I asked.
Melanie stopped sweeping. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘But I ended it the night of the barbecue. I didn’t want to lie any more.’
‘Very noble.’ I paused, remembering how Melanie had given Niamh an earful for flirting with Stuart earlier that week. Not because she was looking out for me, but because she was jealous. I’d misread so much. How could I have been so off the mark? I dragged my thoughts back to the night of the barbecue. ‘Is that what really happened that night? Not the cock and bull story you told me about confiding in Stuart about Bill’s drinking?’
Stuart looked up. Melanie nodded.
‘But you’re seeing each other again.’ I stared at Stuart. ‘Couldn’t you keep it in your trousers?’
Melanie started sweeping, slowly and rhythmically. Stuart buried his head in his hands. When he spoke, his words were muffled. ‘I’m so sorry, Cleo. I was going to tell you, but then Immy disappeared and I… I couldn’t do it to you.’
That’s not how I remembered it. It had been Melanie who’d wanted to spare my feelings. It seemed Stuart couldn’t tell the truth if he tried. I stared at him, this man who looked like my husband, who sounded like my husband, and I realised he was a stranger to me. I braced myself for a new wave of grief to settle like a fresh layer of snow over my heartache over Immy, but nothing happened. Nothing at all. My pride had been dealt a grievous blow, but my suspicions were correct. Our marriage died a long time ago.
‘Cleo, please say something,’ Stuart begged.
Ignoring him, I turned to Melanie. ‘We need to talk about your husband.’
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Melanie listened in silence as I recounted DI Jones’s visit and the shocking news that police had found Niamh strangled at FoodWrapped’s old warehouse. How they’d launched a murder investigation and were trying to trace a man seen at the premises in the hours before her death.
‘That’s awful, but I don’t see what any of it has to do with Bill,’ she said.
‘He was the man at the warehouse. I was there. I saw him,’ I said.
‘You’re lying!’
‘I wish I was. Bill turned up, gave Niamh a fistful of money, they had some kind of argument, then he sped off towards Littlebourne in a cloud of dust.’
‘Perhaps she asked him for help. You know what Bill’s like. Can’t say no to a damsel in distress.’
‘I wondered if Niamh kidnapped Immy and approached him for ransom money,’ I said.
Melanie looked incredulous, and I couldn’t blame her. The more I thought about it, the more implausible it sounded.
‘Even if that’s true,’ she said, shaking her head, ‘it still doesn’t explain where he is now.’ She turned to Stuart. ‘I told you I should have called the police. He’s probably lying dead in a ditch somewhere.’ She ferreted around in her handbag and pulled out her phone.
I laid a hand on her arm. ‘Stuart was right. You can’t call the police. If they get wind of the fact that Bill was at the warehouse last night, that he was the mystery man I saw, they’ll have him arrested and in a cell quicker than you can blink. We need to find him first. Talk to him. Find out what he was doing there. Once we know that, we can decide what to do.’
‘But we don’t know where he is!’
‘Does the Range Rover have a tracker fitted?’
‘It does.’ Melanie’s face fell. ‘But the app’s on his phone.’
‘What about his phone?’ Stuart said. ‘Do you have Find my iPhone?’
‘We never bothered.’
‘Think logically,’ I said. ‘Where might he have gone?’
‘You know Bill. The only places he ever goes are to work, the pub and the lock-up to see that damn car.’
An idea came to me. ‘I wonder if Sheila’s heard from him.’ I picked up my phone and was about to dial when it rang. ‘Shit, it’s a withheld number. Must be the police.’ I accepted the call and said brightly, ‘Cleo speaking.’
‘Just checking everything’s all right with you guys,’ Sam Bennett said. ‘I know the DI’s told you about Niamh. I wondered if you wanted me to drop round.’
My eyes widened. ‘Oh, you don’t need to do that. We’re both fine. Upset, obviously, but fine.’
‘Are you sure? I’m tucked up with a nasty aggravated burglary case, but it’ll wait if you need some moral support.’
‘Absolutely sure,’ I said. ‘We’ll phone if we need anything, I promise.’
‘Fair enough. I’ll speak to the search team sergeant later and I’ll phone if there’s an update.’
I ended the call and let out a long breath. ‘That was Sam. She wanted to come by, but I put her off. I’ll try Sheila.’
The work number rang and rang until Sheila answered, sounding flustered.
‘Sheila, it’s Cleo. Have you seen Bill?’
‘He’s not in yet. Would you like me to ask him to call you when he arrives?’
I glanced at my watch. It was gone half nine. Late by my standards, but not by Bill’s. ‘Yes.’
‘Is that all?’ Sheila’s voice was curt, and I realised I must have sounded abrupt.
‘Sorry, yes. Thank you, Sheila, that’s all. Is everything else OK?’
‘Fine,’ she said. ‘There’s another call coming. I’ll speak to you later.’ And she hung up before I could say goodbye.
‘What’s the matter?’ Melanie said, clocking my expression.
‘Sheila wasn’t exactly helpful.’
‘I don’t know why you bothered asking her. She wouldn’t tell you where Bill was if he’d asked her not to. Saint Bill can do no wrong in her eyes.’
Stuart looked up from his phone. ‘Kent Online are already running a story about a body being found.’
‘Let me see.’ I grabbed his phone and scrolled up to the top of the page. I scanned the story, which was underneath a generic photo of police incident tape strung across a road.
The body of a woman in her 20s has been found in Littlebourne, police have confirmed.
Officers discovered the body on an industrial estate off Court Hill shortly before 3am today.
A police spokesman said: ‘Patrols attended an address at a commercial property in Littlebourne at 2.50am on Thursday 17 June and discovered the body of a woman in her 20s. The death is currently being treated as unexplained and the coroner has been informed.’
The woman has not been named, and a number of officers and Crime Scene Investigators are still at the scene.
More news when we have it.
I handed Stuart back his phone and tried to ignore the anxious knot in the pit of my stomach. Stuart and Melanie watched and waited for me to make a decision. I picked up my car keys and cleared my throat. ‘There’s no use sitting here and worrying. We need to find Bill and see what the hell he was doing meeting Niamh hours before she was killed.’
The Porsche flew along the A257, Absolute Radio blasting hits from the 1990s. Behind me, Stuart’s Audi E-ton was so close I could see the apprehensive expressions on the faces of my husband and his lover every time I glanced in the rearview mirror. I’d instructed them to head to Bill and Melanie’s barn, and then to follow the various routes Bill might have taken to his favourite pub and, crucially, the old FoodWrapped warehouse in Littlebourne.
‘Just in case his car did end up in a ditch,’ I said.
Melanie paled. ‘What about you?’
‘I’ll check the lock-up.’ It was where Bill kept his Lotus Elan. If he was holed up anywhere, it was with his precious custard-yellow sports car.
When we reached Wingham, Stuart turned off towards Bill and Melanie’s house while I carried on through the village towards Preston.
Bill’s lock-up was on the site of an old rose nursery, which was tucked away behind a formidable line of leylandii conifers. The nursery had been closed for years. According to Bill, the owner wanted to build houses on the site but was happy to rent out the lock-up while he wrangled with the local council over planning
permission. Bill loved the privacy and security the leylandii afforded him and described the lock-up as his man cave, where he could tinker with his Elan to his heart’s content.
I reached the beginning of the line of conifers and slowed down until I spied the entrance to the old nursery. The wrought-iron gates were closed. I jumped out of the car and gave them a tentative push. They swung open with a rasp that set my teeth on edge. Bill usually kept the gates locked, which meant he must be here. I got back in the car and inched up the track, butterflies swarming in my stomach.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
I drove along an unmade track around a crumbling glasshouse to a small collection of outbuildings at the back of the former nursery. As the car crawled over the bumps and ruts, I turned this way and that, looking for Bill’s Range Rover. Everywhere I looked, there were signs of decay. Faded sacks of compost slung against a stained grey breeze-block wall, their peaty innards oozing out like guts. Ivy creeping through the skeletal rafters of a rotting workshop. A dead magpie, its midnight-black wings caught in a tangle of rusting barbed wire. I crossed myself without thinking and whispered, ‘Good morning, Mister Magpie.’
I was beginning to doubt Bill was here when I saw his Range Rover tucked behind yet another outbuilding. I parked my car in front of it and climbed out.
‘Bill, it’s me, Cleo,’ I called, my voice echoing across the hardstanding. I spun around, trying to remember which of the outbuildings Bill kept the Elan in. My gaze fell on a barn-like structure to my left. That was it - Bill’s euphemistically named lock-up. He’d sulked when I’d been more impressed by the building’s vaulted ceiling and exposed trusses and rafters than by his newly restored car.
I crossed the hardstanding to the big double doors, only to discover a heavy-duty padlock secured them. I gave it a half-hearted tug, but it was locked fast. From memory there was a door around the far side of the building, and I jogged over and waggled the door handle. It, too, was locked.
I banged my fist against the wooden panels. Three hard raps that made my knuckles scream. ‘Bill, are you in there?’ I shouted. From somewhere inside came a crash, followed by a string of expletives. ‘Bill! It’s Cleo. Are you all right?’
‘Piss off and leave me alone,’ Bill mumbled.
Relief made me giddy, and I leaned against the door for support. ‘Let me in, you bloody idiot. We need to talk.’
More unintelligible mumbling, then silence. I tried another tactic. ‘Bill, if you don’t let me in right now, I’m calling the police.’
Another clatter from inside the building, then the sound of a key turning in the lock. The door opened an inch. ‘Are you on your own?’
‘Yes.’ Without giving him a chance to change his mind, I shouldered my way in. Caught unawares, he staggered backwards into an old oil drum, knocking it flying. As I grabbed his arm to steady him, his boozy breath hit me in the face.
‘Christ, how much have you had to drink?’
He peered at me, his eyes struggling to focus. ‘Not nearly enough.’
‘Come on,’ I said, guiding him towards a bench along the back wall. ‘Let’s sit you down.’
‘Wait,’ he said, tapping his nose with his finger then pointing at the lock. After a couple of attempts, he turned the key and slid it into the pocket of his trousers. ‘Now it’s just you and me,’ he slurred.
A frisson of unease ran down my spine as Melanie’s words came back to me. You don’t know him as well as you think. He’s a mean drunk. But she was wrong. Bill was like a brother to me. I pulled at his arm and he shuffled beside me until we reached the bench. I pushed him towards it, and he sat down with a thump.
He reached for something on the floor beside him and I froze, a rabbit caught in the headlights. Only when he lifted the vodka bottle to his lips and drank deeply did I exhale.
Wiping his face, he grunted with satisfaction. ‘Better.’ He frowned at me as if he’d forgotten I was there. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Niamh’s dead.’
He shook his head and muttered something under his breath.
I perched on the bench beside him. ‘I need to know what happened at the Littlebourne warehouse last night. When you went to see her,’ I added, to be clear.
His head jerked back. ‘How d’you know about that?’
‘I was there. I saw you.’
‘Little whore,’ he spat, and I flinched. ‘Not you. Her. Little whore said it wasn’t enough.’
‘What wasn’t enough?’
‘Fifteen fucking grand like we agreed, and she says she wants more. Bitch. But I didn’t mean to.’ He turned to me with hangdog eyes, his bottom lip trembling. ‘I really didn’t.’
‘You gave Niamh fifteen thousand pounds?’ I leaned towards him. ‘For Immy?’
He frowned. ‘Immy?’
I talked quickly. ‘Did Niamh kidnap Immy, Bill? Was that ransom money you were paying her? Did she tell you where Immy was before she… before she died? Because I need to know.’
Bill cradled the half-empty vodka bottle to his chest.
‘Bill, am I right?’
He gave an exaggerated nod. ‘Good old Cleo, you’re always right. Not this time, though.’ He looked sidelong at me. The hangdog expression had morphed into a sly grin. Jekyll and Hyde. ‘Not ransom money. Blackmail money.’
‘Niamh was blackmailing you?’
He closed his eyes and nodded. ‘Fucking bitch.’
‘Why? What had you done?’
He took another swig of vodka, spluttering as the alcohol hit the back of his throat.
‘Bill, for Christ’s sake, tell me!’
‘Because of Corfu.’ His bloodshot eyes met mine.
‘What? What happened in Corfu?’
‘It wasn’t my fault. I was drunk. Drunk as a skunk.’ He raised the palms of his hands and shrugged helplessly, as if it had been out of his control. Then he pointed at me. ‘So were you.’
I cast my mind back. We’d sunk a lot of booze in Corfu, but the only time I’d been really drunk was the night of the barbecue. The night Niamh was raped.
As I stared at Bill, I was filled with dread. ‘It was you who raped Niamh. Not some random lad she met at the beach party. You.’
His gaze slid to the floor, and I knew I was right. And then the truth hit me.
‘Christ, you’re Immy’s father.’
‘So she said, but how do I know the little whore didn’t shag someone else that night?’ he said belligerently.
‘Oh my God.’ I dropped my head in my hands and tried to take it all in. Niamh had been blackmailing Bill because he raped her. Bill was a rapist. He’s a mean drunk. He was also Immy’s dad. Oh, my God.
‘It wasn’t my fault. She threw herself at me -’
‘She was eighteen!’ I cried.
‘ - parading around in tiny bikinis and crop tops. She wanted it as much as I did.’
‘Bill!’ I leapt to my feet and faced him, my hands on my hips. ‘No one wants to be raped. How could you?’ I stared at him in disgust. Bill had raped Niamh. ‘She was a virgin. You knew that, right?’
He blinked.
‘Christ, no wonder she ended up on heroin. And you,’ I prodded him in the chest, ‘you could have gone to prison if Niamh hadn’t kept your nasty little secret all these years.’ I paused. ‘Does Melanie know?’
He shook his head, an abject drunk once more.
‘Stuart?’
Another shake of the head.
I stared at the rafters, trying to take it all in. ‘When did Niamh contact you?’
‘About a month ago. I thought it was a wind up at first. She said she was going to tell the police I raped her unless I gave her fifteen grand.’
‘Why now?’
‘She said she was going home to Ireland and needed the money. Said I owed her.’
She was probably right.
‘I told her I needed a bit of time. I couldn’t take it out of our savings because Mel would’ve noticed. I had to find another way.’
<
br /> ‘You borrowed it?’
‘Not exactly.’
‘So how the hell did you lay your hands on fifteen thousand pounds without Mel knowing?’
‘Sheila sorted it.’
‘Sheila?’
‘I went to her for help. You know she’d do anything for me.’
‘You told her Niamh was blackmailing you?’
‘Yes,’ he muttered.
‘You told her why?’
He nodded. ‘She knew it wasn’t my fault.’
I gawped at him. ‘Not your fault?’
‘I told you, Niamh threw herself at me,’ he said petulantly. ‘Sheila believed me.’
I was speechless. It was true Sheila worshipped the ground Bill walked on. He gave her a job after Emily, our first secretary, left to start a family. I was recovering from my hysterectomy and hadn’t been well enough to attend the interviews. Sheila would never have been my first choice. I wanted someone young and dynamic, someone with a flair for digital marketing who could help me develop the FoodWrapped brand on social media. Sheila was prim and humourless and probably thought TikTok was a brand of mint, but I couldn’t deny that she was efficient and dedicated.
I’d never really understood why she idolised Bill. He was charismatic and charming, for sure. He was also selfish and capricious, but she seemed blind to that. And, thanks to her infatuation, she worked slavishly for the company. Which suited me.
‘ - she’d do anything to have even a little bit of me,’ Bill was saying. ‘She promised she wouldn’t tell.’
I tried to marshal my thoughts. Bill had raped Niamh. Sheila knew, but had promised not to tell. Now Immy was missing and Niamh was dead. And Bill was the common denominator.
‘Sheila lent you the money, did she?’ I asked.
His eyes darted to mine, and he gave a tiny shake of his head. ‘She said you wouldn’t notice if we… if we created a new supplier.’
Things were clicking into place. ‘Oh, my God. The pair of you invented Blackberry Organics!’
Bill was silent.
‘You utter bastard. Stealing money from our company to pay off a girl you raped. Christ, I’d be impressed by your audacity if it wasn’t so fucking sick.’
